MORELL (Stung). Marchbanks: you make it hard for me to control
myself. My talent is like yours insofar as it has any real worth
at all. It is the gift of finding words for divine truth.

MARCHBANKS (impetuously). It's the gift of the gab, nothing more
and nothing less. What has your knack of fine talking to do with
the truth, any more than playing the organ has? I've never been
in your church; but I've been to your political meetings; and
I've seen you do what's called rousing the meeting to enthusiasm:
that is, you excited them until they behaved exactly as if they
were drunk. And their wives looked on and saw clearly enough
what fools they were. Oh, it's an old story: you'll find it
in the Bible. I imagine King David, in his fits of enthusiasm,
was very like you. (Stabbing him with the words.) "But his wife
despised him in her heart."

MORELL (wrathfully). Leave my house. Do you hear? (He advances on
him threateningly.)

MARCHBANKS (shrinking back against the couch). Let me alone.
Don't touch me. (Morell grasps him powerfully by the lappell of
his coat: he cowers down on the sofa and screams passionately.)
Stop, Morell, if you strike me, I'll kill myself. I won't bear
it. (Almost in hysterics.) Let me go. Take your hand away.

MORELL (with slow, emphatic scorn.) You little snivelling,
cowardly whelp. (Releasing him.) Go, before you frighten yourself
into a fit.